


trigger my nightmare once again

by realmsoffreedom



Series: oneshots [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Modern Era, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 03:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom
Summary: Arthur finally looks at him, jaw held firmly upward, eyes glassy and starting to redden at the corners. “Why do you think I haven’t taken my clothes off for you yet? It’s not because I’m a prude; it’s because I’m fucking ashamed.”





	trigger my nightmare once again

**Author's Note:**

> i'd be lying if I said this wasn't heavily inspired by 5x03. Uther Pendragon is a terrible father and there's not a lot anyone can say that'll change my mind lmao
> 
> trigger warnings for self-harm. there's quite a bit of description of blood, so please don't read this if that's a trigger for you. keep yourselves safe.
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy! please leave me some comments; i'd love to know what you thought! (and i need that fix of external validation sometimes lmao)

It’s a day.

One like so many others, the type that he’s filed into the back of his mind, closed off and compartmentalized, left to its own devices until it’s forced out of the hideaway at the most inopportune time. 

The kind of day that isn’t unfamiliar, but consistently clocks in as unsettling, uncomfortable, unable to fade off into nothingness without some sort of permanent reminder of its events. 

It’s down to a science, by now. Get the text, spend a day or two avoiding opening the message, and eventually relent, inevitably succumb to the sickly sweet voice perched at the back of his mind that drips with immortal guilt. 

He doesn’t know why he keeps putting himself through this. Why he keeps agreeing. Why the little voice keeps whispering assurances that _this time will be different. This time you won’t take his shit lying down. This time you’ll say something_. 

And he plans to. He straightens his collar and pulls out his best trousers, irons out the creases in his shirt, and even dons the sweater Uther gifted him for Christmas. He goes through the painstaking process of making everything pristine, as perfect as can be, pushes away his anxieties and promises himself that tonight will not end like its predecessors. 

He’s nervous the entire drive over, white-knuckling the steering wheel just to keep his hands from shaking. His heart is fluttering in his chest, kicking rapidly against the rising water and trying to stay afloat. Trying to keep _him_ afloat. 

He keeps going over what he’s going to say, rehearses and re-rehearses the lines, finding new ways to rearrange them each time. 

_Father, I don’t want to go into private practice_.

_Father, I have no desire to make medical history_. (At least, not right now. And not for the reasons his father wants him to.)

_Father, I’m going to work in a hospital and do pro-bono surgery_. 

And at Uther’s anticipated freeze: _I want to help the people who really need it, but can’t afford medical bills. Especially kids. It’s not their fault that things are tough. They shouldn’t suffer because of it_. 

He remembers landing on that and stopping, trying the words around for size, once, twice, three times over, with the conclusion that a pathos-driven argument would be the best route for a favorable outcome. 

His residency ends in a couple months, and he’s already begun interviewing for fellowship positions at nearby hospitals. Last night cut the list in half. He has two programs in mind, equally competitive and matching each other, in what they’re offering him. 

This is happening, whether his father wants it to, or not. Arthur would just rather have Uther’s blessing, moving forward. He knows it’s wishful thinking, unrealistic at the very least, to believe his father will welcome the decision with open arms, but it’s worth a try. 

Two hours later, he’s replaying that optimism, the childish sense of _hope_ he was clinging onto, with a rueful smile, turning his head just enough to catch it in the bathroom mirror. _Stupid_. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

There’s an archery competition going on and his heart must be the easiest target, because every reiteration of the past few hours feels like another arrow. Again and again, stabbing his heart in a new place every time, drawing blood and taking chunks from the muscle, and exploding his chest with the building agony. 

It wasn’t going to go well. Uther was never going to understand. Thinking that he would, believing that he’d be accepting of the choices Arthur had made and the curveball he’d subsequently lodged in his direction, was immature. It was childish of him, idiotic, _stupid_, to imagine Uther’s reaction to be anything beyond the belligerence every previous one of Arthur’s dissents has been met with. 

He’s besmirching the family name, Uther had said. _Destroying a legacy of renowned surgeons. Single-handedly taking every bit of the foundation that has been laid down for you and smashing it, Arthur. It’s disrespectful, to say the very least. _

_Get out of my house. _

_I can’t even look at you right now_. 

Uther Pendragon is a name that turns every head. Every room he walked into, intern year; elevators of expectations that just kept climbing and climbing, infinite and immaculate, nothing less than perfect. 

Because it isn’t. His father’s work with artificial hearts has diffused into every room, plagued every conversation, assaulted him at his board exams, and inescapably come up again just last week, when the interviewer at Cambridge assumed he’d followed in Uther’s footsteps and chose cardio as his specialty. 

Finding out he decided on orthopedics, instead, was significantly less impressive.

There’s a look, a tightness in the mouth and narrowing of the eyes. _Orthopedics is a fine specialty. _

_Fine_.

It’s good, but not sufficiently gratifying. Brilliant, but far from the absolute best he can do. Excellent, but not extraordinary. 

His father took a while to come around. Arthur remembers the day. He remembers the whites of Uther’s knuckles around his wine glass, the way his smile dropped so easily – instantly – from his face, appeased to affronted in two seconds flat, the edge that worked itself into his voice, tension and disdain joining hands and curling around every note. 

And at that moment, everything he’d worked for, spent the past thirteen years in school for, bled and sweat and cried over, began its descent. It seemed to be floating away from him, moving at a slow enough rate that he was able to watch the entire thing unfold, while completely powerless to stop it. Whether he wanted it to, or not, the switch had been flipped.

His dream, previously pliant and dripping in soft pink, felt jagged. The edges dug into him, pricking his skin and infusing poison into his veins. It hurt. It hurt back then and it still stings now, sharp pangs promising pain whenever he thinks about the future. Whenever he remembers that _it’s not what Father wanted. It’s not what you’re supposed to do. It’s not cardio. It’s not_-

It’s not enough. 

And once again, he finds himself back in this place. Heart in pieces at the pit of his stomach, chest swelling to a place of unchartered heaviness, ache pulsing so badly behind his eyes that he doesn’t even have the strength to pretend he can handle the pain. 

It’s twelve years ago and he’s seventeen again, overworked and exhausted and utterly fed up with his consistent inadequacy. It’s late nights and even earlier mornings, hiding under fabric that digs and pulls and hurts him, more than anything. It’s old habits that die too fucking hard, recaps of the worst moments burning at his skin, stabbing at his heart, dosing their poison into his veins and screaming, _relapse_. 

He hid in jeans, even when London reached above thirty degrees and the summer was too hot to bear. In retrospect, he feels kind of stupid, for even bothering. Uther wouldn’t have noticed, either way. He didn’t pay that much attention. Well, not to what he was wearing. 

If Arthur’s grades dropped below a 95 in even his worst subject, his father was breaking down his bedroom door, hollering about disappointment and snatching back his monetary conveyances of love – Arthur’s TV and phone and numerous video game consoles. But when his son showed up in nothing but jeans throughout the dead of summer, wincing as the fabric pulled at his fresh wounds, Uther was none the wiser. 

It’s twelve years later, and he’s twenty nine, about to finish his residency and go on to work at one of the best children’s hospitals in all of England, and he is, once again, sitting on the bathroom floor, wishing things had ended when he wanted them to. When he tried to force them to, almost a decade prior. 

It’s twelve years later, and not a thing has changed since he was seventeen.

_Destroying the family legacy._

_Disrespecting everyone who’s come before you._

_Disappointment. _

_Disappointment. _

_Disappointment_.

…

Merlin is worried. 

There’s been no word from Arthur all day. 

And it’s the worst kind of worry there is, he’s realizing. One of potential, unsure of the definite future but unable to pull himself from the grips of what ifs long enough to reapproach rational thought.

A single mention of his father’s name changes something in Arthur. Merlin figured that out the very first time, after he’d just about talked Arthur’s ear off about his most recent conversation with Hunith, only stopping after almost a full hour, finally remembering to ask about Arthur’s own parents. 

Every time he thinks about it, Merlin wishes he could go back in time and slap himself – _not everyone is good with their parents, idiot. Just like you to screw things up and make the first date awkward_ – especially when he remembers the pointed glance at the floor as Arthur spoke of his dwindling relationship with his father, corroborated by the death of his mother so long ago.

_I don’t think he’s ever stopped blaming me_, Arthur had said, words barely discernible. His grip on his wine glass had loosened and his eyes were far away, trained on some blank spot on the wall. It’d only lasted a couple moments, just enough time for Arthur to find his composure in some deep reserve of strength, and then he was back to his previous self, murmuring apologies with another sip of wine. _We don’t get on. Haven’t for years. It’s just like that, now. I’m used to it_.

It’s been a few months since then, a lot more dates – really, Merlin’s just glad his utter foolishness wasn’t an instant turn off – and not one word about Uther Pendragon.

The illustrious Uther Pendragon, renowned cardiothoracic surgeon, whose artificial heart implants made medical history. Merlin remembers the realization, the resolve it took to force down his teeming questions at their next date and speak to Arthur as _Arthur_, instead of Uther Pendragon’s son. 

He’s never pushed.

And Arthur’s never made move to talk about it. 

Not until two nights ago. Arthur had waited until the credits begun to roll. He spoke mostly to the floor, a tightness about his jaw, head held stiff, eyes trained on the wall once again, _I know you said you’d make me dinner, but…he just asked today, and if I say no, he’ll just keep asking_. 

He was quiet, afterward. He reacted to Merlin’s hands in his and kissed back, just as soft and warm as always, but the darkness never left his eyes. Something was different, has _been_ different, and it all boils down to tonight. This dinner. Father and son, having a meal together for the first time in months.

It’s almost ten, and still, no word from Arthur. No answer to the ‘good morning’ or ‘good luck’ texts. _Take a deep breath. Tonight’s gonna go great. And I’ll be around afterward, if you need anything_.

It’s almost ten, and Arthur isn’t answering, and Merlin is worried. Worried enough to get the tube over to Arthur’s apartment. He’s trusting the dinner will be over by now. Uther Pendragon doesn’t seem like _that_ much of a talker. 

His next clue that something’s wrong is the unlocked door. It swings open when he tries the handle, and Merlin _knows_ Arthur isn’t the type to leave his front door unlocked. 

“Arthur?” He calls, rapping his fingers against the door. _Maybe he forgot to lock up on the way out. Maybe he just went downstairs for a couple minutes, and he’s on his way back. Maybe he fell asleep_.

Nothing. 

Merlin doesn’t like the silence. Ice is curling into his stomach, stretching its roots to every crevice and turning him numb. He swallows, long and heavy against the growing lump in his throat, steps inside, and shuts the door behind him. “Arthur? You home? It’s me; it’s Merlin. Arthur?” He wills his voice not to shake on the last word.

A tiny part of him is still hoping, still expecting Arthur to walk out with a towel around his waist, shocked at Merlin’s presence because his phone was turned off, or dead, or still in his car. And Merlin would smile, stark against the water in his eyes and the flash of hot anger that’d envelop him, punch Arthur in the shoulder, and (tearfully) warn him against ever scaring him like that again. 

He’s still optimistic. _Best case scenario. Please_.

And then he hears the crash. 

He’s not sure what it is, but something hits a wall and then clatters to the ground, sharp and loud as it makes contact with what sounds like…_tile flooring_. 

Either Arthur _is_ home, or something in his bathroom’s gotten into a fight with gravity and lost. 

When Merlin pushes open the bathroom door, amidst the glaciers freezing up the rest of his stomach and the ten kilometer sprint his heart has decided to go on, he _really_ fucking wishes it were the latter.

Because the former is Arthur, pressed against the far wall, hair rumpled, tears drying on his face, razor blade poised over a still-welling gash on his forearm. Crimson is leaking down his arm, dribbling all the way to the crook of his elbow, and he’s doing nothing to stop it. He’s doing nothing to stop any of it. 

The former is unbearable. 

Merlin forces himself to take a breath, but it hitches on the way down and doesn’t really provide him with any supplemental oxygen. He’s trying to ward off the panic, keep himself composed because _this is not what Arthur needs right now. This is not what anyone needs right now. This can wait. Breathe._

_breathe_.

Arthur isn’t looking at him. His face is turned toward the tiny bathroom window, jaw held stiff, in a way that matches the tension in his neck. Merlin knows this tightness, this rigidity of Arthur’s body. It’s the way he gets when he’s forcing himself not to cry, trying to keep everything pulled so deep down, so internalized, preventing even the tiniest slip.

“Oh, Arthur…”

He scoots across the floor and reaches over Arthur, to pull toilet paper from the roll. His heart is racing, and he can feel his shirt dampening against his back. The wave of sweat is cooling against his body, frighteningly so. Everything feels like it’s floating, like this version of reality isn’t quite right and he’s still partly in dreamland. Maybe this is a nightmare. It feels like one. 

“This isn’t the answer.” He presses the toilet paper against Arthur’s forearm and cranes his neck, tries to move into a position where he can meet his boyfriend’s eyes. “Okay? Hey, listen, Arthur, can you hear me?”

Arthur is so stiff and so quiet. It makes him sick. He’s never been in a situation like this one before. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to make it worse, but there’s blood still dripping from underneath the tissue and Arthur’s made no move to even acknowledge his presence. 

“Go away, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is low, gaze still not leaving the adjacent wall. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“Go? I- what? Arthur, no, I can’t just let you keep doing this!” 

He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know what the _hell_ Uther Pendragon said to his son, what words of bullshit he strung together to put Arthur on this floor, in this position, devastated and on the verge of doing something so scarily permanent. He doesn’t know what happened, but he can’t let it go on. He can’t let Arthur fall down this hole. 

He knows how bad it can get. How serious these types of addictions become. This can’t happen to Arthur.

Arthur wriggles his arm out from under Merlin’s grip, and at his move to say something, grabs for more toilet paper as well. He presses it against his wounds with a roll of his eyes. Merlin’s heart sinks.

He’s done this before. 

It’s been a couple years, and the circumstances were very different, but it’s a few times, enough so that he knows what to do now. He knows what he can help with. 

He didn’t have to wrestle a bottle of whiskey from Arthur’s flimsy grip or fight him for the blade. Gwaine is different, all the times Merlin’s found him; angered tears and hasty swings at Merlin’s face, promises that he’s got everything under control – _as blood dripped down his arm and pooled in the crevices of Merlin’s fingers_ – only for him to relapse days later. 

Gwaine only has sex with the lights off and rips into his skin to feel something more than ‘not good enough’ – _it’s something, Merlin. You wouldn’t get it. M’so fuckin’ tired of feeling nothing_ – and it is so different, than right now. 

Arthur is different.

Stops the bleeding on his own, doesn’t lunge for the confiscated blade, breathes in a normal pattern, different. He’s quiet and calm and Merlin isn’t sure how to handle it. He doesn’t know what Arthur needs. He can only help what he can see. 

But Arthur isn’t talking to him. And he doesn’t know what’s wrong. 

“Please, Arthur.” Merlin reaches over and grips his shoulder. “Promise me. Promise me you won’t do it again. This can get outta hand really quick, you gotta- you can’t do this to yourself…”

The lump in his throat throbs as he says the words. Tears are burning in the corners of his eyes, precariously managing not to fall. 

“Sure it can.” Arthur mumbles the words with another roll of his eyes, under his breath and unintended for Merlin to hear, but he catches them. 

“What?”

Arthur finally looks at him, jaw held firmly upward, eyes glassy and starting to redden at the corners. “Why do you think I haven’t taken my clothes off for you yet? It’s not because I’m a prude; it’s because I’m fucking ashamed.”

Everything is happening at the same time, far too fast to process. Merlin opens his mouth, _knows_, he needs to say something, but no words are coming. His throat is too dry. It feels like someone’s just ripped his stomach from his body with no warning, and it _hurts_, jagged and painful with every breath he takes. 

Arthur stands. He yanks his shirt from inside his trousers and unbuckles his belt. And Merlin watches, his gut sinking further and further toward his feet, as Arthur draws his jeans down to his knees and turns to face him. 

Merlin isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at, until he follows Arthur’s gaze downward. He stares at the milky white of Arthur’s thighs, crisscrossed with slashes that trail up past the line of his boxers, and stretch downward, ending just a few inches above his knees. 

His breath catches in his throat. The tears are rolling down his cheeks, but he didn’t even feel them break through. His chest is too tight, too heavy, like there’s a rhino on top, a manifestation of Arthur’s tears and his pain and the secret he’s kept from the world for far too long, and Merlin can’t bear it. Everything hurts. 

He wants to hug Arthur. He wants to murder Uther Pendragon. He wants to go back in time and keep any of this from happening, make his way into Arthur’s life earlier, have this moment the _first_ time Arthur took a goddamn _knife_ to his thighs, tears and fights and all. 

“Arthur-”

“It’s okay,” Arthur pulls his pants back up, but doesn’t bother to button them or refasten his belt before he slumps back to the floor. He lets his head loll back against the wall and closes his eyes. The tear tracks are shining on his cheeks. Merlin didn’t even realize he was crying. He opens his mouth again, but Arthur continues, an attempt to return to the hard place his previous words have come from, “I understand, if you want to go.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he says the words, and then Arthur swallows, long and heavy. His jaw is still clenched tight, and his face is turned away. Merlin waits, on the off chance that there will be more, but Arthur (finally) seems to be done. 

He scoots over to sit opposite Arthur and leans forward to cup his cheeks. Arthur’s eyes remain closed, silent tears still leaking. “Nothing about this is okay. But it doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere. It doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, voice catching on the word. “Please.”

Merlin nods, stroking both his thumbs over Arthur’s cheeks, and leans in to press their foreheads together. He stretches forward and Arthur leans into him, enough so that Merlin can wrap his arms around his back and pull him in for a proper hug. Arthur stays there, pressing warm puffs of air into Merlin’s shoulder and soaking his tears into the fabric of Merlin’s shirt.

Merlin hesitates for a few seconds, before his next movements. _It’s too soon. Too much. It’s not what he needs right now_. 

But he doesn’t know _what_ Arthur needs right now. He doesn’t know if touch is too much, or whether his words will be the worst thing for the situation. It’s nothing like it has been. Nothing like he’s ever dealt with before. 

Arthur is _nothing_ like Gwaine. 

Arthur tastes of salt when he kisses him, long and slow. Merlin’s hand drifts upward to cup the crown of his head, as Arthur’s move down to his waist. 

“Can I clean you up?” Merlin takes Arthur’s wounded forearm in both hands and reaches into the bathroom cabinet. 

At the tiniest nod of his boyfriend’s head, Merlin pulls a first-aid kit from the bottom shelf and sets to work, dampening a piece of gauze and wiping at the drying crimson that’s begun to pool in the crook of Arthur’s elbow. 

“I started when I was a teenager.” He forces himself not to lift his head when Arthur speaks again, keep his face impassive and concentrate on limiting peroxide to only the deepest wound, _do not react. This is not about you. Your feelings can wait until later_. 

“Fourteen, maybe,” Arthur continues. His voice sounds light, much less weighty than the subject at hand. “I’d just finished year nine, and gotten my end of year report, and, well-” His breath hitches. Merlin watches him swallow again, squeeze his eyes shut before he continues, “Father wasn’t happy with my maths grade.”

“And it wasn’t like I was bad at maths, or anything.” Arthur’s voice is teetering so dangerously on the edge, the verge of breaking. “But when you can’t find the energy to get out of bed, let alone do your homework assignments, the zeroes add up.”

“Arthur-” Merlin tries. His chest feels like it’s going to explode. 

Arthur follows Merlin’s gaze downward, and once again, back to his forearm, down to the only vertical scar on Arthur’s skin. The line travels from the base of his palm, all the way to his elbow.

“They diagnosed me with depression when I was seventeen,” Arthur says, in some kind of explanation. “Gave me anti-depressants, but my father wouldn’t let me fill the prescription.”

Merlin wants to be sick.

“And then, when I got to UNI, and didn’t need his permission, I got the meds. But maybe he was right, because a couple weeks later, I decided I was done with everything, and took the entire bottle.” 

Arthur’s chest heaves with the sob, dry and unforgiving. It sounds like it hurts. He stares pointedly at the wall, snapping back into that position when his gaze wavers even the slightest bit. He refuses to look at Merlin. 

“So, really, I’d understand, if you never wanted to see me again.” Arthur’s voice is breaking all over the place, wrought with tears on every new word. But still, he holds firm, keeps his jaw stiff, and forces himself to remain in that position. Merlin can see the height of the tension in his face, so tight it looks painful. “This is too much for most people.”

“Not for me.” Merlin can hear the sob in his own voice, thick and sharp in its cracks. “_Never_ for me, okay?”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur argues. “And I don’t want you to feel-” He pauses, and Merlin hears him take a large breath, voice thick and shaky when he continues, “_obligated_, to stay.”

“Arthur. Arthur, look at me, please?” He waits until he has Arthur’s eyes, reaches out to cup his cheek and thumb away some of the wetness. “It’ll be hard. You’re right about that. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be- that doesn’t mean _you_ won’t be worth every second.”

“Don’t patronize me, Merlin.”

“I’m not. I promise I’m not.”

“It’s barely been six months.”

“It’s been long enough.” Merlin reaches down to grab Arthur’s hands, and squeezes them. “_More_ than long enough, for me to know that there’s never been someone like you, Arthur.”

“There’s never been so much of a mess?”

“There’s never been someone makes me feel like you do,” Merlin corrects. The words are finally coming, in ways they haven’t before. Leaping forward and tripping over themselves to be the first to reach Arthur. He inhales, as the warmth of that familiarity seeps back into his stomach and surges upward. “There’s never been someone so loving, so understanding, so kind…and yet so much of a _prat_, at the same time.”

Arthur cracks a smile. _Finally_, Merlin thinks, as he watches the grin stretch into Arthur’s cheeks. “Just had to be a girl about it, didn’t you _Mer_lin?” He pauses for a few seconds, and follows it with, “thank you. Really. I- that means more than you realize.”

“I love you.”

Arthur’s smile seems to freeze on his face, giving way to his open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare. “You, I…what?”

“I was going to make you dinner tonight,” Merlin says, squeezing Arthur’s hands once more. “Light some candles, get some flowers, and pretend to laugh at one of your _stupid_ jokes.” He stops there, and waits for Arthur’s indignant expression, grinning. 

“Hey! My jokes are-”

“-and then I was going to tell you.” He bites his lip and ducks his head, moving his gaze to the floor, “I’ve wanted ta say it for a while. Just never really found the right time.”

“And you thought now was-”

He cuts Arthur off again, interrupts his once-more descent into deprecation, “now is perfect.”

…

“I love you too.”

Merlin freezes, when he hears the words. His hand stops halfway to Arthur’s head, and he drops it down to Arthur’s comforter, pinches one of the wayward threads between the pads of his fingers and starts to pull. His heart is beating too fast. He needs it to stop.

“I thought you were asleep,” he manages, soft and croakier than he intends it to be.

“I’m always ready for people to run,” Arthur offers. “My father, he- he never really cared that much about forming relationships with other people, after my mother died. Didn’t trust them, I guess. He believes the most power comes from being on your own. And that’s what he told me for so long, and then you came along, and I just…” He punctuates the thought with a little sigh, and doesn’t say more. 

“I don’t want to run.” Merlin squeezes Arthur’s hand tight. “I never will. It’ll be hard, but that’s okay.”

Arthur gives the slightest nod. Merlin doesn’t push it. This depth of public feeling is unchartered territory for Arthur, new and fresh and nonetheless uninviting. He’s teetering on the very edge of ‘things he can handle before a complete mental breakdown’, and Merlin refuses to try for any more inches. He’s learned enough today.

“We’ll fill your prescription again,” he says, with a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head. “And you’ll take them properly this time. I’ll make sure of that. And maybe we can try therapy, too, if you feel like it’ll help.”

“Maybe.”

“This is your life, Arthur. Not your father’s. He doesn’t get to decide any more.” 

In lieu of a response, Arthur presses his nose against Merlin’s neck and tightens his arm around his waist. Merlin smiles.

_Yeah. He’s gonna be okay_.

**Author's Note:**

> should mention that i am a massive grey's anatomy fan and a lot of uther in this was inspired by ellis grey, and subsequently, the dynamic she and meredith have in the show. 
> 
> (also, if any of you are interested in a oneshot going more into depth of the things merlin was alluding to with gwaine...let me know. i may already have it planned out...)
> 
> once again, thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed!


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